


steady true north fades (we'll be just fine)

by glowinghorizons



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War II, F/M, Minor Character Death, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 23:42:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6774985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glowinghorizons/pseuds/glowinghorizons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“War did not come like a hurricane, Rorimer realized, destroying everything in its path. It came like a tornado, touching down in patches, taking with it one life while leaving the next person unharmed.” </i><br/>― Robert M. Edsel, The Monuments Men: Allied Heroes, Nazi Thieves, and the Greatest Treasure Hunt in History</p><p>OR: </p><p>Bellamy and Clarke are members of the Monuments, Fine Arts and Archives Program during World War II. While traversing Europe searching for looted and stolen works of art, they cross paths repeatedly, causing them to question what's truly important in war-torn Europe.</p><p>There's a happy ending here!</p>
            </blockquote>





	steady true north fades (we'll be just fine)

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been watching a lot of HBO war stuff lately, and wanted to write a WW2-era Bellarke AU, but then I realized that Bellamy would totally be part of the Monuments Men. Totally. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own _The 100_ , the song "West" by Sleeping At Last (which I've used for the title), or _The Monuments Men_ , which I’ve been reading and which inspired this story. Also: I am not a historian! I am a history geek, and I did a bit of research for this, but please forgive any small errors that don’t fit with the era or any situations that seem unrealistic for the time period. I tried to be as accurate as possible!
> 
> Possible triggers: Descriptions of violence, minor character death, mentions of PTSD and trauma.

_“To save the culture of your allies is a small thing. To cherish the culture of your enemy, to risk your life and the life of other men to save it, to give it all back to them as soon as the battle was won… it was unheard of, but that is exactly what Walker Hancock and the other Monuments Men intended to do.”_ ― Robert M. Edsel,[The Monuments Men: Allied Heroes, Nazi Thieves, And The Greatest Treasure Hunt In History](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/6705842)

 

* * *

 

_April, 1945_

Second Lieutenant Bellamy Blake watches his steps carefully as he creeps through a salt mine in Altaussee, Austria, muttering to himself. “You made it this far, don’t end it all here by getting yourself killed.”

As a member of the Monuments, Fine Arts and Archives program, he’s managed to stay primarily out of the front lines of war, and he intends to keep it that way. The war is all but over now. The SS officers are scrambling to escape Germany before the Allies can get their hands on them.

Bellamy is supposed to be meeting another member of the MFAA here, and even though he isn’t in direct danger, he still can’t shake the instinct to hoist his gun higher, ready to fire if need be.

The MFAA originally didn’t provide any member of the Monuments Men with weapons when they landed in Europe, but Bellamy procured one along the way out of pure necessity. He’ll never forget the intense shelling that he was caught up in when he was trying to get through Bastogne, or the haunted looks on the faces of the men he saw there.

A dying man had thrust his M-1 at Bellamy when he knew he would need it no longer, and Bellamy wasn’t idiot enough to turn it down, even if he felt guilty at taking something from a dying man, a dying man that he couldn’t save.

Bellamy is a curator. He was never meant for war. He enlisted as soon as the first plane struck Pearl Harbor, but he never intended to go and fight. He thought he’d be part of the administration, or working with some kind of Battalion headquarters, keeping track of the battles and writing down all the events that unfolded as they made their way to Berlin.

Quickly after basic training, Bellamy realized that they were training him for something else. He had heard through the grapevine, of course, that Hitler was systematically stealing all of Europe’s most precious artwork and keeping it for himself. That part was understood. The man had a conqueror's mind, but it was the buildings, the statues, the chapels and the historical landmarks that Bellamy worried about. They had no way to move those things. Even the Nazis, with their misguided ideals, couldn’t ‘save’ those places.

That was what brought Bellamy to France. He was attached to Patton’s Third Army, and was assigned to go in before battles took place and mark the buildings that needed to be protected, and assess the damage already done after the battles were over.

The aerial strikes were almost impossible to control, and Bellamy knows that there is almost nothing left of some of the most remarkable architectural achievements the world has ever seen, most notably in Italy.

So, Bellamy’s job, along with 345 men and women from across the world, is to make sure that whatever’s left stays intact. So far he’s gotten back several world renowned paintings and sculptures, but has also come close to getting things stolen back from him, and getting killed.

He remembers vividly his run-in early on in the war with some SS members who were trying to track down the Mona Lisa. Bellamy had only been in France for a few days when he found himself in battle, trying his hardest to remember his training. His mind races as he thinks of the other members of the MFAA who were in the wrong place at the wrong time, who were shot by stray bullets or shrapnel. In war, there’s no telling when it could all go to shit.

“Lieutenant,” an enlisted soldier greets him when he’s about halfway through the mine. It’s dark, and Bellamy is on edge. He tries not to jump when he hears the other man’s deep voice, although he’s not sure why he’s trying so hard to hide it.

Everyone is jumpy.

“Lieutenant Griffin is waiting for you in here.”

“Thank you, Private.”

Bellamy heads into the smaller room inside the mine, and his mouth nearly drops open when he registers what he’s seeing. The room is tall, and that’s the first thing Bellamy notices, because this place was carved out by _human_ means. The room is filled to the brim with paintings, statues, gold coins, jewels… more splendor than Bellamy has ever seen in his entire life. He makes a mental note to write to his sister and tell her about this place.

Up ahead, he can hear a familiar voice muttering, and a smile creeps onto his face against his will.

“Talking to yourself again?”

She jumps, her hand going to rest over her heart. “Lieutenant--”

“I told you. Call me Bellamy.” He reminds her.

“You scared me,” she scolds him, her hands smoothing out the pleats in her army-issued skirt. “I’ve been waiting for you for an hour.”

“The road into town is in pieces. We had to go around.”

The fear in her eyes returns, though she does a good job masking it. “Bombs?”

“No, it looks like TNT. It’s possible the SS were just trying to keep everyone out while they made a run for it.”

He watches her, Lieutenant Clarke Griffin, as she makes her way to a stack of boxes with a clipboard resting on top. “I was trying to make sense of this ledger,” she says, handing it to him. He examines it, but frowns when he realizes there’s more German language here than he can decipher.

“We’ll probably need a translator.” Bellamy says, still frowning. “There’s some POW’s at Battalion CP, but that’s a good twenty minutes away.”

When he looks up, Clarke isn’t looking at the stacks and stacks of boxes around them anymore, she’s looking at him. She’s got a strange look on her face, and he almost doesn’t want to ask, but he does anyway. “What? Is there something--”

“You’re hurt,” she says, sounding frustrated.

Bellamy sighs, remembering the cut over his forehead. “It’s just a scratch.”

“You were on the front last month,” she says, not a question, but stating a fact. He figures that word got out. After all, the only way this operation would work is if the Monuments Men (and women) stayed in touch even while they were scattered all across Europe.

“They needed volunteers.” Bellamy replies, and they both fall silent. It’s such a simple sentence, but all the implications behind it that are left unsaid are what make them both pause. Yes, he volunteered to go to the front. He had to, because there was almost no one left. It was the worst two weeks of his life. He’s always felt a little guilty that he wasn’t out there fighting for his country the way his friends from back home and his relatives were doing. Every time he came back to the apartment he was put up in at some Battalion Headquarters and saw the injured being driven in, he felt guilty.

So, when the call came that there simply weren’t enough men left alive in some companies to carry out their objectives, he did his duty. He was a Lieutenant based on time in service, but he never earned his stripes like the other men did. No one looked down on him for it, however, which he is still immensely grateful for. He remembers the original company he was attached to when he first arrived in Europe, and their fierce loyalty and dedication to one another. They treated him that way, too.

(He tries not to think about how there’s hardly anyone left from his original company. He tries not to remember the look in the Captain’s eyes as he shuffled papers viciously, trying to find a way for Bellamy to get out of the company before it didn’t exist anymore. He tries not to remember how that was the last time he would ever see that man alive.)

“I was only there for two weeks before I was reassigned.”

Clarke still has that look on her face. Bellamy finds that he wants to get rid of it as quickly as possible. Her intense scrutiny leaves him shifting his weight. “Did you-- were you involved in--”

Bellamy huffs, frustrated, “Are you asking me if I killed a Kraut, Lieutenant?”

A sadness sweeps over Clarke’s face. “You can call me Clarke.” Her voice is soft, sympathetic, and Bellamy finds it grates on his nerves.

“I didn’t kill anyone. Never even fired my weapon.” Bellamy takes a deep breath, “I saw a lot of good men die, though. I don’t know how it’s fair that they’ll never go home after they’ve sacrificed so much, but I will, after finding a bunch of paintings for three years.”

“What we’re doing is more than that, Bellamy.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing when his hand grazes the cut on his face. “I know. Sorry. I’m just-- I’m so _tired_.”

He’s so tired of waiting for the war to be over, tired of watching his back every time he tries to go to sleep, tired of being so _scared_ all the time.

Recognition flashes over Clarke’s face, and she nods. “Just-- just, be careful, okay? The war might be all but over, but I heard through our contacts in Germany that Hitler has basically told every soldier to fight until he’s dead.”

Her voice is detached, cold, the way all of them sound now. There’s a current of anger running underneath it, and he knows how she feels. He’s never even gotten a glimpse of Hitler, but he’s seen the stolen artwork and even stolen family possessions. He’s seen the work camps. He knows what Hitler is trying to do.

Bellamy nods. “We should get back to work. We need to get some of this stuff packed up and shipped out.”

They spend the next hour in quiet, each of them working through the boxes and other paintings and sculptures that are in the mine. Bellamy keeps sneaking glances at Clarke out of the corner of his eye, not sure why, but he’s worried about her. He’s met her a few other times, when they were first coming together as a unit. She’s always bold, bordering on stepping out of line when she speaks to other officers. He admires that about her though. She’s willing to do whatever it takes to ensure that Europe’s culture isn’t stolen by the Nazis.

“Have you been staying out of trouble?” he asks her after too much silence, the corners of his mouth tipping upwards in a small smile.

She rolls her eyes. “I’m _never_ in trouble.”

“You just never get caught.”

Clarke laughs, a sound that he hasn’t heard from anyone in what feels like years. It’s nice -- this back and forth they have. They’re able to make each other forget that they’re in what is technically enemy territory in the middle of a war. “I’ve never gone against my orders,” she protests, and he smiles, using a small knife to cut open another box that lays at his feet.

“I heard you stole some papers from some Germans when you were in France.”

She hums noncommittally, not meeting his eyes.

When she won’t look at him, he frowns. “That was dangerous, Clarke.”

She looks up then, scowling. “I’m sorry. Are you my commanding officer and I somehow forgot?” Her hands perch on her hips as she glares at him.

“You got orders to go through an SS Officer’s papers and _steal_ them?” he asks incredulously. He can’t believe that her C.O. would make her do something so reckless without other enlisted soldiers to back her up.

“My orders were to find out how the Nazis were going to try to ship the stolen artwork out of Paris. That’s what I did.”

He just stares at her, feeling irrationally angry that she would put herself in danger so needlessly. He knows it’s stupid -- she’s been trained just like he has for the mission they’re carrying out, and he knows that she asked some other members of the MFAA to teach her some basic self defense. Bellamy himself taught her how to shoot a rifle, even though the chances of her ever getting her hands on one were slim to none.

Clarke was an art curator at a small but renowned art museum in Virginia before the war. After Pearl Harbor was attacked, she volunteered to be a nurse and went through the training required before she was contacted by the higher ups in the MFAA who had learned about her art credentials. It’s good to have a medic with the team, he thinks, because God knows that all it takes is one of them ending up in the wrong place at the wrong time or a rogue SS member showing up to make everything go to hell. That being said, he knows Clarke can handle herself.

He’s not sure why he’s taken it upon himself to look out for her, whenever they find themselves in the same country, but he can’t help it. Call it his protective instincts, or something else… he hasn’t had time to figure it out. Out here, in the middle of a world war, he hasn’t given it much thought. He’s too afraid to figure out what the weird tension between them could be. Nothing good can come from this war. He’s not going to test fate.

Another hour passes before two enlisted men come in to tell them there’s been an air raid on a town not too far away. They have to get out before they’re spotted.

“This is Allied territory now,” Bellamy protests as he and Clarke walk quickly back out of the mine. Most of the contents of the mine have been inventoried and loaded onto trucks and trailers, but there’s still more to go through. “There shouldn’t be enemy flyovers.”

“There shouldn’t be,” one man says sarcastically, “but we’re in the middle of a goddamn war. Logic doesn’t apply.”

Clarke shares a wary glance with Bellamy before he holds out his hand to haul her into the truck that’s going to give them a ride to Battalion CP so they can give a report to the Captain. Frowning, Bellamy can hear the now-familiar sounds of gunfire in the distance.

“It’s a patrol,” one of the other soldiers says, gritting his teeth. “Sounds like they found something.”

“Let’s get the hell out of here and find out where the hell the rest of our unit is,” the first man replies, and the sentence is barely out of his mouth before the telltale sound of shelling starts, the sound way too close for Bellamy to feel comfortable.

“Jesus Christ--” Clarke mutters, and when Bellamy looks at her, her eyes are shut tight, her face drawn and pale.

They make it to Battalion CP just as things are picking up. Soldiers are running for their rifles, their platoon leaders calling out commands. “I thought this war was over,” Bellamy grumbles, and their two escort soldiers glare at him.

“You two are on your own,” the one who had been driving them says, and then they’re both gone before Bellamy and Clarke can figure out what to do next.

“Let’s go,” Clarke says, and then she’s fairly pulling him along by his wrist, hauling him into the house that the company has set up headquarters in. When they get there, things are calmer - officers standing around looking at maps and talking quietly amongst themselves.

Clarke and Bellamy stop when they enter the room, and both salute to the other men. “We’ve got an inventory from the mine.”

“Bring it in,” the Captain says, without looking up. “You two need to stay in here. I don’t have weapons for you and don’t have a platoon to attach you to. I need you here.”

“Sir--” Clarke starts, but then stops, weighing her words. “Sir, I don’t believe we’ll have time to get everything out of the mine if the shelling continues. The patrols are taking up all the manpower.”

The Captain looks at her warily, as if daring her to continue. Bellamy takes that as his cue. “We’d like permission to go back with a truck and try to get the rest of the boxes out on our own.”

The Captain actually _laughs_ , which is clearly not a good sign. “You know what, Lieutenant? If you can find a truck that still works and that has supplies and you want to go on a suicide mission, be my guest.”

Clarke huffs, but Bellamy puts a hand on her elbow to stop her from saying anything out of line. The last thing she needs is to get court martialed before the war is over. “Should we be worried about the shelling?” She asks instead.

The Captain’s countenance shifts, his eyes turning serious. “It shouldn’t get out of hand, but stay away from open areas if you can help it.” He sighs, “Hitler is dead.”

The relief that shoots through Bellamy nearly has his knees giving out.

“His last orders to his armies were to fight until their last breath. There’s going to be some desperate, desperate men out there.” The Captain meets Bellamy’s eyes. “You need to be careful.”

.

.

_“Before God, Before their Mothers, they call for me. I am the Medic, and I will always come for you.” ([x](http://themadmedic.blogspot.com/2012/08/the-hard-choices-will-medic-face.html))_

_\--------_

They get to the mine without any problems, but despite the elation that Bellamy feels knowing that Hitler is dead, he still finds himself looking over his shoulder every second. Clarke is equally on edge, her eyes darting around from place to place as they start to pick their way through the darkened mine.

The sun is starting to go down and it’s a lot harder to figure out where they’re going when they don’t have a guide anymore, but they both have small flashlights in their uniforms. The shelling in the distance is loud and Clarke flinches.

“Let’s hurry up and get the rest of these boxes loaded,” he tells her, pushing her slightly ahead of him.

They manage to get half of the rest of the inventory packed in the truck, carefully stacking the boxes and trying to ignore the sounds of what is clearly becoming a battle in the not-so-far distance.

They’re just about to head back into the mine for one last trip when they see five men struggling towards them, two of the men helping another one limp down the road.

“ _Medic!_ ” The shout is loud and clear, and if one word can send a shudder up and down Bellamy’s spine, it’s that word.

It does the same for Clarke, but with better reason. She is a trained Army nurse. Hearing the call, she takes half a step forward before she realizes what she’s doing, and she stops, looking back towards Bellamy.

“We have to help them,” she says, her eyes wide and scared, but also filled with determination.

“Clarke--”

“ _Lieutenant_ ,” Clarke cuts him off, her voice like steel. “I’m going. You can come or you can stay.” She reaches into the pocket of her skirt and pulls out a white armband with a red cross on it and tugs it up over her left bicep.

“Medic! Nurse!” The call comes again as the men get closer, and all Bellamy can see is blood. He shuts his eyes for a second trying to regain his bearings, and then he follows Clarke, who is already at the man’s side, her hands flitting around his abdomen as the other men all start talking at once.

“Ambush--”

“They came out of nowhere--”

“Only three of them, but there was a sniper in the tree--”

“Get him inside,” Clarke says, cutting off their panicked voices. “In the mine. We’ll be safer in there then out in the open.”

“We can’t stay here,” Bellamy protests. “The shelling is getting closer, and if a patrol spots us--”

“I won’t let him _bleed out_ , Lieutenant!” Clarke says, and Bellamy doesn’t know why it feels like a punch to his stomach that she’s not calling him by his first name anymore. He thinks it’s because they’re in the presence of other soldiers now, but still. “How many syrettes did you give him?” She demands, turning her head towards the half squad of soldiers standing in front of them.

Bellamy is struggling to ignore the harsh breathing and pained whimpers of the man who’s been shot.

“Two?” One of the soldiers, a sergeant judging by his stripes, face covered in dirt and blood says through clenched teeth. His nameplate reads _Miller_. “Maybe three. We weren’t the first ones to try to help him.”

“Who was?”

“They’re back there in the woods,” one man says harshly to Clarke, eyes flashing. “Probably right where the Krauts left them if you want to go ask them.”

“ _Private_.” The sergeant says sharply. “We don’t have time for this. Get inside. Nurse, do you have a medic bag on you?”

“ _Lieutenant_ Griffin is with the Monuments Men. Same as me.” Bellamy says, interrupting.

“I have a bag in the truck,” Clarke tells the sergeant, ignoring Bellamy. “I’ll grab it and meet you inside. Go down the corridor all the way to the end where there are shelves and a few tables. Put him there. Keep applying pressure to that wound, and for God’s sake don’t give him any more morphine.”

The soldiers do what they’re told and they head inside as Clarke runs for the truck, Bellamy hot on her heels.

“We need to get this truck out of here,” Bellamy says, grabbing her elbow as she tries to shoulder her way past him.

“I _need_ to help that man. You don’t outrank me, Bellamy.”

“We have orders!”

“Then take the truck and deliver the art to Battalion CP.”

Bellamy’s eyes narrow. “I’m _not_ leaving you here.”

“There is a man dying in there, Bellamy. I’m not going to let that happen on my watch if I can help. In case you didn’t notice, their entire squad was killed, probably including their medic.”

“Medics can’t be--”

“If there’s shelling, they can be hit just as easily as anyone else! Now stop arguing with me and get going. I’ll be here and I’ll be _fine_.”

Bellamy stares at her, trying to decide when this infuriating woman became so important to him. He hardly has time to even think it before she’s gone, running into the mine, her blonde hair escaping it’s pins in wavy tendrils.

Sighing, Bellamy follows her, because there was never any inclination in his mind to go back and leave her here with these men and who knows how many Germans roaming the woods trying to make a last stand.

When he gets inside, he can hear the wounded man groaning, calling out for the pain to _stop, please, make it stop_ , and Bellamy flashes back to his time on the front lines, where this was the only thing he could hear.

“Bellamy, help hold him down,” Clarke calls out to him, like she knew he would follow her, determination set all over her features. “I need to make an incision and get the bullet.”

“Do what you have to do, Doc,” Miller, the sergeant, tells Clarke, gripping the wounded man -- _Collins_ , Bellamy reads -- by the shoulder.

Clarke looks up, meeting each of their eyes. “No matter what he does, or says, hold him still.”

Without another word, Clarke starts what is essentially emergency surgery, and the sight makes Bellamy swallow hard and start mentally reciting prayers he hasn’t uttered aloud in years. Miller is speaking to Collins, his voice loud and firm. He’s not really saying anything in particular, just trying to soothe the man that Bellamy fears is already close to death.

“Just a few more minutes, you can do it, come on, hold on,” Clarke says, her voice a steady mantra mixing in with Sergeant Miller’s.

“You’ll be okay, Collins, just hold on, keep your eyes open--”

There’s blood everywhere, too much blood, and Bellamy dimly registers one of the soldiers in Miller’s platoon leaving the room hurriedly. Bellamy can only assume the sight has become too much for him, and Bellamy doesn’t blame him. All he can think is that _this isn’t supposed to be happening_. The war is all but over. No one else is supposed to die.

“No, _no_ \--”

Clarke’s panicked voice jolts Bellamy back into the present, and he realizes with a sinking feeling that the chest under Clarke’s hands isn’t moving.

“Doc--”

“No, he’s not--”

“Clarke…” Bellamy whispers, his free hand coming to rest on her shoulder. She turns to glance at him, her eyes full of pain, and he wishes more than anything that she could have been spared of this. He thinks Clarke is one of the bravest people he’s ever met, but she should be somewhere in a field hospital, or in a museum. She shouldn’t be in a damp, dark, salt mine trying to convince herself that a wounded soldier isn’t dead. “Clarke, he’s gone.”

Clarke backs away from the table slowly, and Bellamy notices her hands shake slightly as she tries to compose herself. “I-- I’m sorry, I didn’t--”

“You did everything you could, Lieutenant.” Sergeant Miller wipes a hand over his face. The room suddenly falls silent, and Bellamy feels his heart twist at the look on Clarke’s face. It dawns on him that while she is trained for this, she’s primarily been doing MFAA work since joining the war effort. This is likely the first time she’s had to actually operate on someone (without the proper tools, no less) and the first time she’s lost someone.

Bellamy clears his throat. “Our truck is full, but I’ll come back to get you after we get back to Battalion CP and unload.

Sergeant Miller nods at him, and salutes. Bellamy does the same, pausing once more to look at Private Collins on the table. Bellamy thinks he can’t be more than nineteen years old.

“Lieutenant Griffin. We should go.”

Clarke follows him out to the truck but he can tell she’s not all there. _She’ll go into shock_ , he thinks, and knows he needs to get her back to headquarters so she can clean up and try to get something to eat. He’s got a spare K-Ration in his kit, but she would kill him if she knew he gave up his last one.

When they arrive, other members of the MFAA have arrived, probably having been reassigned once word of the salt mine got out.

“We barely made it into town before the shelling started. That road they were repairing is in bits again,” another MFAA soldier, Wells Jaha, tells Bellamy.

Together, they unload the truck, Bellamy telling Wells about what happened with the squad they came across in the mine. “I should make sure she’s okay.”

“You’re overstepping,” Wells warns, grabbing another painting out of the back of the truck, inspecting it for tears. “I’ve known Griffin for a little while. She doesn’t want to be seen as weak. She’ll hide what she’s thinking until you leave her alone.”

Bellamy opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted by their Captain, stepping out of the headquarters. “Blake,” he says, and both Wells and Bellamy snap to attention, saluting. “As you were. Blake, I need that paperwork on my desk by the morning. You’re being reassigned. Tomorrow you head to Cologne.”

“Cologne?” Bellamy asks, stupidly. He feels like he’s been hit over the head with something heavy. He’s heard the rumors about Cologne. Mostly that there’s nothing left; that the entire city has been bombed beyond recognition.

“There’s a monastery there that’s been under suspicion for holding most of the looted art you’re looking for. They need a man there tomorrow.”

Bellamy nods, swallowing thickly. “Yes, sir.”

“That report on my desk first thing. You leave with Able Company. They’ll give you a lift to the train station.”

Bellamy salutes as the Captain turns to leave, leaving him with his thoughts. Unsurprising to Bellamy, but jarring all the same, his thoughts mostly consist of Clarke.

\-------

 _“If the fires of freedom and civil liberties burn low in other lands they must be made brighter in our own. If in other lands the press and books and literature of all kinds are censored, we must redouble our efforts here to keep them free. If in other lands the eternal truths of the past are threatened by intolerance we must provide a safe place for their perpetuation.”_ \- [President Franklin D. Roosevelt, June 30, 1938 in an address to the National Education Association](http://www.nationalww2museum.org/learn/education/for-students/ww2-history/quotations/allied-leaders.html)

Bellamy trudges up the stairs in the old house they’ve been put up in, and takes a deep breath before knocking on Clarke’s door.

“Lieutenant?”

“Come in,” her soft reply comes through the door. When he enters, he stops short. Clarke is in her shift, sitting up in her bed, a journal spread out in front of her. Her hands are still shaking. “I was trying to-- to _sketch_.” She says, as if she should feel guilty. She lets out a near-hysterical laugh. “My hand won’t stay steady.”

Bellamy reaches for the pitcher of water and small bowl near her bed, and pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. “Give me your hand,” he tells her softly, his voice a quiet rasp in the small room.

“I can do it--”

“I know. Give me your hand, Lieutenant.”

Clarke gives in, placing her hand tentatively in Bellamy’s larger one. The contrasts between the two of them distract him momentarily, but then he feels the way she’s still trembling, so he gets to work, dipping his handkerchief into the cool water in the basin and he starts to try to clean some of the blood and grime off her hands.

“I couldn’t save him.” She whispers, her voice cracking.

He looks up at her. “You can’t save everyone.”

“It’s my _job_.”

“You’re doing your job, Clarke.”

“When I volunteered, I pictured myself in some field hospital somewhere, stitching up small wounds or helping men learn how to walk again. I pictured helping men deal with shellshock and write letters home to their families when they couldn’t. I never pictured any of this.”

Bellamy pauses and then resumes cleaning up her hands while he tries to think of the right words to say. “When the MFAA came to you and requested your assistance, what did they tell you?”

Clarke huffs, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Lieutenant, what did they tell you?”

“They told me that my expertise in turn of the century watercolors would prove to be invaluable.”

“What else?” Bellamy presses, knowing there’s more to this.

“They told me that since I enlisted to be a nurse, that I would be the most valuable member of any unit associated with the MFAA.”

Bellamy nods. “You see? You’re doing your job. You didn’t have to help those men. You chose to stay there and perform _surgery_ with next to no supplies. You could have told Private Collins that there was nothing more you could do for him and you could have started saying prayers. Instead, you told him he was all right, that he was doing well, that he was going to make it.”

“I _lied_ \--” Clarke spits.

“You were kind to him when he needed it most,” Bellamy counters. He looks into her eyes, eyes the color of the ocean, eyes he thinks he’ll be seeing in his dreams for years to come. He watches as they fill with tears, and he sees it the moment she cracks.

She slumps forward with a sob, her forehead landing on his shoulder. She gasps as she tries to stop herself from crying, and he shushes her, reassuring her that it’s okay to cry. God knows how often Bellamy has seen soldiers cry. Why should she be any different?

Her hands still in his and her head still on his shoulder, he tugs her closer until his arms envelop her, her warmth seeping through her shift and his shirt to set his skin ablaze. It seems like hours they sit like this, until Clarke sits upright, swiping at her eyes.

“I’m-- I’m sorry, this isn’t-- this isn’t proper--”

“Clarke.” Bellamy says her name gently. “I think we moved past proper the minute I came in here with you dressed like that.” He manages a small smile, the most he’s smiled in months.

They’re both quiet again until he remembers the reason he came in here in the first place. “I’m being reassigned.”

Her head snaps up, her eyes dark. “What? Why? Where are they sending you?”

“Cologne. The Captain told me when we got back. There’s a monastery there--”

“Why aren’t I going with you? My orders were to help you with the shipment here, and then wait until we _both_ received new orders.”

“I don’t know.”

Clarke’s brow furrows, her hand still in his. He can’t help but rub his thumb over the top of her hand. “Please be careful, Bellamy.” She whispers, and it’s like a knife to his heart, because suddenly he’s so angry that this woman has come into his life only for them to be separated. He supposes he should be grateful that at least there’s a chance they’ll see each other again, unlike the many men he’s known who will never go home, who will never see their families again.

He thinks of his sister, who writes him almost twice a week, and knows he’s going to live through the end of this war. He’s never been more sure of anything before. As he glances back at Clarke, his surety only strengthens.

\----------

_May, 1947_

Bellamy walks down a tree lined street in Arkadia, Virginia, the train ticket he has back to Maryland burning a hole in his pocket. He needs to get back home to Octavia, but there’s one more thing he has to do before he can let himself get on a train.

Stopping on the sidewalk, he looks up at the museum in front of him and takes a deep breath. He’s been waiting two years for this moment and while he doesn’t have any expectations that she’ll even be here, he has to find out for himself.

Walking inside, he smiles, because this place is so _Clarke_. There is evidence of her everywhere, but no more so than the woman herself. He can hear her voice through a partially closed door, the husky sound sending a familiar thrill through his veins.

“.... My job was not as important as the men who gave their lives for this country,” she’s saying to a group of rapt schoolchildren, “but in the long run, it meant a lot to the people of Europe and even to people here in America.”

He stays towards the back as she finishes her presentation. She’s got slides on a screen, illuminating the entire wall with photographs of the war. He spots himself there a few times, he and Clarke with heads bent over lists and maps, trying to figure out where to go next.

Clarke finishes her presentation, and as the children file out of the room, she looks up, her eyes meeting his. Her face lights up, and before he can say anything, she’s running towards him, flinging her arms around his neck when she gets close enough.

His eyes slam shut at the feel of her pressed against him, her soft breath tickling his neck.

“Oh god, you’re okay…” she’s muttering, and while he’s relieved to see her, his mouth turns down in a frown.

“Of course I am.”

“I heard about an airstrike in Cologne not too long after you shipped out, and then I didn’t hear from you, I--”

Bellamy cuts her off with a kiss. He presses his lips to hers and tugs her even closer to him, relishing in the soft sigh she lets out against his mouth. She responds fiercely, her fingers spearing through his hair, and he has to pull away before it becomes too much.

“I wanted to write you, but things got dicey for a little while there. There was almost nothing left of Cologne by the time I got there. There wasn’t an airstrike, but there were planes flying over almost every day.”

Clarke is still looking at him like she can’t believe he’s here, that he’s alive, and he wonders if he’s looking at her the same way. He’s had two years to write her and tell her how he feels, but he couldn’t do it -- fear of thinking she already had someone back home, or fear that neither of them were going to make it home stopping him in his tracks every time he picked up a pen.

“I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I had to see you,” he tells her, opting for honesty. “I should have said something, in Austria. Hell, I should have said something back in France. I didn’t know if I was just feeling… If I was just lonely and tired.”

“I felt that way too,” she admits. “I couldn’t figure out why I was so sad every time we were separated, but the last time, after… after Austria, when you comforted me and held my hand-- I knew I cared about you.”

Hearing his own feelings echoed in Clarke’s words are too much for Bellamy, so he kisses her again, hoping he gets the chance to do this again every day for the rest of his life.

“I’m thinking of moving Octavia out of Maryland,” he tells Clarke when they break apart. “I don’t have a job anymore, and I’m thinking maybe Virginia could be a good place for a fresh start.”

Clarke’s answering smile lights up the room. “I think that would be a very good idea,” she says, before leaning in to capture his lips once more.


End file.
